


the light on the door to show that you're home

by MovesLikeBucky



Series: Gift Fics 2019 [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Bodyswap, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Episode: s01e06 The Very Last Day of the Rest of Their Lives, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:35:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22210405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky
Summary: He has to focus, he has to become Crowley.  This won’t be difficult, he’s known Crowley so long.  Aziraphale has memorized nearly everything there is to know about the demon - for thwarting purposes, obviously.He knows the kinds of quips Crowley would make in the face of adversity.  How he carries himself around perceived authority. How he walks like he’s not sure what exactly ‘hip bones’ are supposed to be.But he also knows Crowley’s kind heart and his clever mind.  He knows Crowley’s loyalty. And it is loyalty, isn’t it? He never went to Alpha-Centauri.  He never would have, not without Aziraphale along for the ride.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Gift Fics 2019 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1581070
Comments: 53
Kudos: 183
Collections: Break in Case of Emergency: Fluff and Love





	the light on the door to show that you're home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [appleduty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/appleduty/gifts).



> Still kicking it on these Gift Fics! This one for my dear, dear friend [appleduty](https://apple-duty.tumblr.com) who requested [I'll Be Your Mirror](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dMeZCPbM6bA) by The Velvet Underground!
> 
> Special thanks to [Phoenix_of_Athena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_of_Athena/pseuds/Phoenix_of_Athena) for the beta work on this one! <3 <3

_I'll be your mirror_

_Reflect what you are, in case you don't know_

_I'll be the wind, the rain and the sunset_

_The light on your door to show that you're home_

_\---_

The first thing Aziraphale is aware of is the stench. Like rotting eggs mixed with bile mixed with month old trash with just a hint of lilac. As if someone decided to pin all of their hopes and dreams on a multipack of Poundland air fresheners.

Also it’s wet. The air feels damp; his clothes feel damp. He can hear dripping coming from somewhere. That constant trickle of a faucet drip, but one that never quite keeps to a pattern. The kind where you expect the drip, but then it’s just a millisecond off course and grates on your nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard.

It’s a veritable assault on his senses. After all, Aziraphale has _standards_. He also has a throbbing pain in his head that he doesn’t quite remember where it came from. He keeps his eyes screwed shut, trying to will the pain out of his head.

Think back, try to remember. He’d been in the park with Crowley. He’d had ice cream. He liked ice cream. No, focus back. Angels; a kidnapping. The Sound of Music? Still sick of that one. Then a crowbar. Tickety-boo. But it’s all backwards because…

Aziraphale finally opens his eyes. Everything is dark, impossibly dark. Sunglasses, of course. Oh dear, that’s right, they’ve swapped faces. He’s in Hell wearing Crowley’s face; laid out on a concrete slab in what appears to be a prison cell.

He sits up and takes stock of his surroundings: four concrete walls with no visible door, the concrete slab, and a poster on the wall. The poster has a kitten hanging from a tree branch, it says “Hang in There!” at the top. Underneath, in a scrawl, it says “The Worst Is Yet to Come” with a crude approximation of a smiley face[1]. It’s unsettling at best, completely idiotic at worst.

He lies back down on the slab. It’s uncomfortable, but far from the worst place he’s ever rested. There’s nothing for it now, all he can do is wait. Whatever denizens of Hell have been charged with capturing him will come back for him soon enough.

After all, “the worst is yet to come”.

He has to focus, he has to become Crowley. This won’t be difficult, he’s known Crowley so long. Aziraphale has memorized nearly everything there is to know about the demon - for thwarting purposes, obviously.

He knows the kinds of quips Crowley would make in the face of adversity. How he carries himself around perceived authority. How he walks like he’s not sure what exactly ‘hip bones’ are supposed to be. 

But he also knows Crowley’s kind heart and his clever mind. He knows Crowley’s loyalty. And it is loyalty, isn’t it? He never went to Alpha-Centauri. He never would have, not without Aziraphale along for the ride.

He knows how the lines around Crowley’s eyes crinkle differently when a smile is genuine. How he stammers when he’s overwhelmed or embarrassed. How when he’s had just a bit too much red he starts to hiss at the end of his words. How he can captivate a room, hold it in the palm of his hand like an apple on offering. How when he laughs, he laughs deep and full and melodic.

He knows so much about Crowley; the being in the world he holds most dear in this life.

He’ll have to channel all of that to keep Crowley safe, and he knows that right now Crowley is doing the same for him in Heaven. They’ll survive this, they have to. Aziraphale can reflect everything Crowley is right at them and win Crowley his freedom.

Aziraphale closes his eyes and a razor sharp memory comes back to him unbidden. A church in 1941, the burning remains of a house of God that signalled the beginning of Aziraphale’s own awareness. He’d been falling for a long time, but not from Grace.

He’d seen it, in Crowley’s flat the night before. The eagle lectern from the church. Sentimental old serpent.

When this is over, if they survive, there’s no need to hide any longer. Their sides are perfectly aware of their “fraternizing”. 

If they get out of this, Aziraphale resolves to tell Crowley what he’s known for so long, in the deepest recesses of his angel’s heart. He loves Crowley, with every fiber of his being that shouldn’t. And when this is over, he’s going to tell him just that. 

\---

Ozone. Overwhelming, nostril burning, ozone. Like an overactive air conditioner. And pine, but that particular artificial pine. Cleaning solution. Hovering over the surface like someone dumped an undiluted jug of it on the floor and just walked away.

And the light, it’s so _harsh_. Hell is supposed to be harsh, but this is on another level. He can’t see anything else for how bright the light is, these eyes that are not his are taking their sweet time adjusting. He strains his wrists against the rope restraining him. It’s rough and itchy, obviously imbued with some kind of celestial energy since he can’t will it away.

The room feels cold, like an unbearable chill. But he can still feel himself sweating. Like the worst waiting room in the known universe. No temperature regulation to be had. It’s ironic, he thinks, if this is supposed to be where you _want_ to end up. The chair that creaks every time he moves is not helping. It’s so uncomfortable he wants to scream. 

He can’t, of course. He’s bound and gagged. By angels, of all things. Figured his lot would go in for that before Heaven did. Hell has several agents with those kinds of things as their purview (for pain and for pleasure, and for that weird place they intersect.)

Ah well, focus on something else.

The windows are a nice touch - floor to ceiling polished glass. He can see all the wonders of the world from here, and even Crowley has to admit the view from the top is nice. But it’s so empty. A vast hall with no life in it whatsoever. Where are they keeping all those alleged pure souls? Not here, obviously.

It’s lonely, he realizes, with a twinge of affection for a certain ineffable being. One that he’s currently wearing the face of.

No wonder the angel surrounds himself with books and food and the finer things. There’s nothing here. Nothing but overly bright and overly clean.

Aziraphale belongs in a dusty bookshop. He belongs on Earth with the humdrum monotony of human life and the ever-changing majesty of human invention. Not in this place.

This place that belittles him, makes fun of his hobbies, of his corporation, of his soft heart, of his do-gooder nature. Everything that makes Aziraphale, well, _Aziraphale._

This place never deserved him. Never deserved an angel that cared about every being he came across, even so much as to cover a lowly demon with his wing in the rain; or who cares so much about humanity he’ll swan dive away and straight back down to Earth for an infinitesimal chance to save them all.

They’ve never deserved the one angel who truly is a being of pure love. They were never his angel’s _home_ . Home doesn’t treat you like that; home is supposed to be a place of _love_.

He shakes his head. _Gotta play the part_ , he thinks. He knows Aziraphale better than he knows himself. Aziraphale has a few nervous tics, but underneath is a soldier. A guardian charged with protecting the first of humanity. A protector who has watched over the Earth and its inhabitants for longer than anyone or anything else (save for two). 

A being of so much immeasurable ethereal power that a mortal being could never comprehend his true form. A being of so much love that it overwhelms even a demon who shouldn’t be able to sense that anymore. A being who cares about things like crepes and Shakespeare and nonsense first editions of books no one even _remembers_ anymore.

A being who cares about him. Who cares about _Crowley_. And is right now in Hell wearing his face and being strong for him. 

Crowley can do the same. He can be a mirror image of Aziraphale, in every way. He has to.

And when he gets out of here, the first thing he’s gonna do is finally, _finally_ kiss his angel senseless. Let him know, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that he is _wanted,_ that he is _loved,_ and that he is _home._ Crowley will be there - for as long as Aziraphale would have him - to show him how wonderful he is, how beautiful he is, and how absolutely _loved_ he is.

Even love from something wretched is better than the falsehood of this place. Crowley had learned that the hard way in the early days.

But when this is over, he’ll be there to hold Aziraphale together, to be the light on the door that leads him home.

\---

“Demon Crowley,” Beelzebub sneered, “I sentence you to extinction via holy water. Have you anything to say?”

This trial had been a farce at best. Just evidence and an execution sentence. But they had been prepared for this. 

“Well, yes,” ‘Crowley’ says after a bit of contemplation. “This is a new jacket and I’d hate to ruin it. Would you mind if I took it off?”

Beelzebub rolls their eyes and Dagon groans. He hears Hastur mutter something about “flash bastards” under his breath. Aziraphale turns and takes off the jacket, folding it neatly over a metal chair in the corner.

He spares a couple of passing glances to the tub full of holy water next to him, saying a silent prayer to no one that this works. He can feel the residual energy radiating off of the water and he suppresses a shudder as he strips down to just Crowley’s socks and underwear.

He’s wearing his demon’s face and facing down the very thing he’s feared for so long would be Crowley’s undoing. How long has he been terrified of this? Ever since that horrid argument in 1862 he’s feared for the demon where holy water is concerned. 

The lengths Crowley had gone to to get it has scared him, but it had been worth it in the end. Aziraphale can’t imagine a life without Crowley in it, and hopefully after this he won’t have to.

He moves to the tub, stands staring into the water. It feels a bit like things coming full circle, at this point. “Any time now, traitor,” Hastur calls to him, “We don’t have all day.”

He turns around, takes a deep breath, and falls in backwards with a dramatic splash. Aziraphale is gripped by a momentary panic as he hears the tell tale pops and sizzles of holy water-induced destruction. It soon becomes apparent that this is just the residual demonic energy on the floors and walls, sizzling away into the ether when it mingles with the splashed water.

Oh, that means this is going to be _fun_. He can’t resist, tossing a bit of water towards the window of the demons staring at him. Watching them scream and recoil. He smirks in a way that he hopes fits on Crowley’s face.

“I don’t suppose that anywhere in the nine circles of Hell there’s such a thing as a rubber duck?” Aziraphale asks to the room in general, finally turning to his supposed ‘jury of peers’. He has to suppress a laugh. Dagon is cowering behind Beelzebub, who looks like they just witnessed Gabriel trying to dance the salsa. 

“No?” he asks with an obvious lilt to his voice. When they don’t answer he goes back to his humming and splashing, being as ‘flash’ as he can possibly be. 

“He’s gone native,” Beelzebub croaks out while Dagon cowers behind them, “He isn’t one of us anymore.”

“So you’re probably thinking,” Aziraphale says with a flourish, draping himself over the edge of the tub as though he doesn’t know what bones are, “‘If he can do this, I wonder what else he can do?’”

He watches their faces, sees the fear underneath. Angels can sense love, that’s true. But they can sense other things, too. Fear, in particular. They’re meant to assuage fears, to calm and reassure. But Aziraphale has been playing both sides for long enough in the Arrangement that he knows how to nurture that fear as well.

He stares Beelzebub right in their beady eyes, “And very, very soon, you’re all going to get the chance to find out.”

“He’s bluffing, we can take him,” Hastur says, a bit too quickly to be casual, “One demon against the rest of Hell? What’s he going to do?” Aziraphale pays him no mind, Dukes of Hell are beneath Principalities anyway. And none of the demons in Hell are fit to even _look_ at Crowley’s face, as far as he’s concerned.

“Shut it! Get him out of here, this’ll cause a riot,” Beelzebub shouts while rushing to block the window to the peanut gallery; Aziraphale honest-to-someone giggles. Beelzebub keeps shouting, “What are you all looking at? Nothing to see! Nothing to see here!”

There are footsteps and a flickering of fluorescent lighting, and Aziraphale turns to see Michael, prim and proper as always, strolling down the hallway without a care.

“I came to bring back the - oh, Lord.” 

Aziraphale almost wishes he had a camera phone, just so he could preserve the shocked look on the archangel’s face. For days when he needs a good laugh

“Michael! Dude. Do us a quick miracle, will you?” He says, hand outstretched, not wanting to waste an opportunity and feeling emboldened by wearing Crowley’s face, “I need a bath towel.”

Michael hands him one in an instant, still looking shocked as anything. The confidence that comes from being Crowley is _exhilarating_ . The more he gets away with, the bolder he is. Aziraphale decides right then and there, he’s going to make sure they never, _ever_ threaten Crowley again. 

“I think it would be better for everyone,” he puts on his best angelic fury voice, preying further on that seeping feeling of fear, “if I were to be left alone in the future. Don’t you?” 

He stares each of them down in turn, holding eye contact and glaring into their very souls. He waits for each to nod in turn before deciding he’s satisfied.

“Right,” he says with a smirk and a wiggle (he is still _him_ after all, even wearing Crowley’s face), before getting out of the tub and doing his best saunter towards the exit.

He heads for the elevator, stands still as a statue as he waits for it. He’s in such a hurry to leave he nearly runs into one of the Erics on his way in. As soon as the doors close, he sinks against the elevator wall and sobs. Aziraphale cries as he feels the worry wash away from him, the worry that’s plagued him for centuries now. Crowley is finally free, and Aziraphale couldn’t be more relieved.

\---

“Can I hit him? I’ve always wanted to hit an angel.”

Of course Eric would want to take advantage of an opportunity. Idiot that he is,

Sandalphon grins, gold tooth glinting in the harsh lighting. “Go for it,” he says with contempt. Aziraphale had told Crowley about earlier the day before, when the Archangels had cornered him in an alleyway. Now it seemed they didn’t want to get their hands dirtier than necessary.

Eric stands in front of him, reeling his fist back like he’s gonna be able to do anything. Lowly disposable demons, always wanna be above their station. Crowley can’t break character, but he isn’t gonna let this asshole get a punch in. 

He stares coldly into Eric’s face, pouring every but of contempt he can without breaking the facade. He can’t let them see him crack. He can’t let them see _Aziraphale_ crack.

He screws his angel’s face into what he knows Aziraphale to be. Brave and steadfast, even in the face of adversity. Never truly backing down when he’s up against the wall. And he lets out one, teeny, tiny little smirk. Just enough that only Eric would be able to see it.

“I...should be getting back,” Eric stammers, fear radiating in waves,”I’ll come and pick up the Hellfire in, what, an hour?”

“Barbecue will be over by then,” Uriel says with all of the enthusiasm of a uni student with a 5 AM math class.

Uriel makes her way over to him and unties the ropes on his wrists in one movement, “Up.”

And he does jump up, because that’s what Aziraphale would do. He adjusts his clothing - waistcoat, bowtie, cuffs - same way Aziraphale has always done. The nervous tic that’s been his calling card for millennia.

“I don’t suppose I could persuade you to reconsider?” Crowley knows the angel would make one last attempt, one last gesture to give them the opportunity to do the right thing. “We’re meant to be the good guys, for Heaven’s sake.”

“Well for Heaven’s sake,” Gabriel says with his corporate smile, “we make an example out of traitors. So...into the flame.”

Crowley stares at the pillar of hellfire for a beat, more than a little concerned with if their plan will work or not. He thinks of his angel, burning in hellfire, burning out of existence.

He thinks of a bookshop. Of a Queen record melting to a gramophone. Of linen pages and leather binding going up in smoke. Of himself, on the floor, soaked to the bone, screaming to no one and nothing. Of an angel shaped hole in his life.

Crowley thinks of how relieved he was, sitting there drunk on Taliskers, when Aziraphale had materialized in front of him. Not himself again, not yet, but safe. _Where are you, wherever it is, I’ll come find you._ He’d meant it, and Crowley had found his angel again at the end of the world.

He’d screamed through fire, he’d drove through fire, and now he’d walk through fire. All for his angel. 

“Right, well, lovely knowing you all,” Crowley says, knowing Aziraphale would be kind, even to the last. “May we meet again on a better occasion.”

“Shut your stupid mouth and die already,” the smile that Gabriel gives him now makes him want to vomit; it’s so callous and fake. He stares Gabriel right in the eyes as he steps forward. The heat from the pillar is warm and comforting; he’s a demon, after all, he was born anew in Hellfire after the fall.

Crowley takes a deep breath and walks in, letting his body adjust to the heat. It’s comforting, in a twisted sort of way. Like a nice screaming hot bath at the end of a particularly difficult day.

Crowley sighs and rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck a couple times for good measure. Hellfire is surprisingly good for the joints, when it doesn’t kill you instantly. Gabriel and the other archangels are staring at him, stupid gaping looks on their faces.

What’s a field trip to heaven without a little bit of fun at the expense of some right bastards?

He breathes Hellfire right in their faces, laughing as they scamper back liked spooked rats. He thinks to himself that it’s a shame that the Hellfire didn’t hit any of them.

Sandalphon looks like he’s about to jump out of his skin. Uriel is shivering. Gabriel is wearing his fake corporate smile again, trying to find a way to salvage the situation.

“It may be worse than we thought,” he stammers out, Sandalphon hiding behind him like a scared little kid.

“What...is he?” Uriel asks, the only one with a level head in this situation.

“You see,” Crowley says in a multi-layered version of Aziraphale’s voice, “I don’t think you want to know what I am. Because the less you know, the less danger you’ll be in.”

Crowley weaves his hand in front of him, almost like an orchestral conductor, swirling the Hellfire between his fingers. Shaping it into little spheres and then banishing them back to the rest of it, acting for all the world like he doesn’t care.

“Gabriel, we need to go to damage control,” Uriel says, tugging on Gabriel’s sleeve, “If word gets out about this.”

“You’re right, yes, of course,” Gabriel stammers, rubbing his temples with one hand, “It’ll start riots, I know. Fine, Aziraphale, just...get out of the fire.”

“Oh are you sure? I’m just working on my tan a bit, it’s ever so dreary in my bookshop, I don’t get much sun you know.”

“Just _leave_ , Aziraphale!” Gabriel shouts, face red and perfectly done hair falling out of place. That alone was worth the trip, to break the composure of the Archangel Fucking Gabriel (what a prick).

“Ah, right then, I’ll just…” he steps gingerly out of the fire, adjusts his clothing again (waistcoat, bowtie, cuffs - every single time), and worries his hands together as he heads for the exit.

He gets in the elevator that will take him back to the lobby, where he’ll hurry to the prearranged rendezvous point as fast as he can. As soon as the door closes, he collapses against the wall and laughs. Big, full, gargantuan laughs. Soon enough his sides is hurting and he hadn’t even known their corporations were _capable_ of that. 

Aziraphale is free now, and Crowley has never been happier.

\---

Aziraphale fidgets anxiously on the park bench. Crowley should’ve been back by now, he’s sure of it. He’d been half expecting to meet him in the elevator or the lobby, if he’s honest. Then again, Heaven does like to drag things out.

It’s all he can do to keep from jumping from the bench when he sees his own usual corporeal form heading towards him. They did it, they survived. They averted the apocalypse and tricked both Heaven and Hell. And now they can spend the rest of their days on their own side; together.

A place that Aziraphale has wanted to be for a very long time. He settles himself as Crowley sits next to him on the bench.

“So,” Crowley says in the angel’s voice, but sounding so very much like himself anyway, “D’you think they’ll leave us alone now?”

“At a guess, they’ll pretend it never happened.” Aziraphale is practically vibrating off the park bench. He’d made his promise to himself, he’s going to tell him. Just, not while he’s wearing his dear demon’s face. “Anyone looking?”

Crowley presses fingers to his temples and scans the area, Aziraphale fidgets with a ring that doesn’t exist and shoots a look skyward despite knowing he doesn’t need to any longer.

“No,” Crowley says, sounding a little distracted in his own right, as he extends a hand, “swap back then?”

They link hands and Aziraphale feels the atoms on the outer edges of his corporeal form rearrange themselves back to his usual soft and stuffy self. He shakes out the kinks just a little while Crowley cracks his neck next to him.

Aziraphale looks over at him, noting that he seems stiffer than usual. Must be the swap. Even if it was just outward appearances, it’s still rather taxing. Crowley catches him staring and reaches up to change the collar on his jacket back to red.

“A tartan collar, really?”

“Tartan is stylish!”

Crowley just rolls his eyes at him, and Aziraphale decides it’s now or never.

“Crowley, I have something I really _must_ tell you,” he’s glad to have his own visage back, if only so the ring exists again for him to fidget with. This should be easy, but what if he’s wrong?

“Whatsit then, angel?” Crowley says, raising an eyebrow, and oh suddenly it is so very, very easy.

“I’m sure you must already know, I don’t see how you wouldn’t, I’ve never been good at hiding it, but Crowley,” Aziraphale can feel the sting of tears in the corners of his eyes. He’s heard of happy crying before, but never experienced it himself, but this feeling of release so close to saying those three simple words must be what that’s like. “Crowley, I lo-”

He doesn’t get to finish.

\---

Crowley is, at best of times, a bundle of anxiety and nerves. Today was no exception.

He hadn’t been sure when the time would be to make his move, but then Aziraphale had looked at him _like that_ and every bit of resolve he might’ve had holding him back faded away. 

Aziraphale had been saying something, Crowley hadn’t really been paying attention, but suddenly it didn’t matter. All that mattered were those lips and his lips and the tears in the corners of his angel’s eyes and making them go away.

His hands were on Aziraphale’s face before he could tell them not to be, and their lips were crashing together soon after.

So now here they sit - on a park bench, lips locked together. Aziraphale is frozen stiff as a statue and suddenly Crowley has a very sharp and very real fear that he’s gone to fast again.

He breaks off and hides his face in his hands, sunglasses pushed up into his hairline, “Christ, fuck, ‘m sorry angel, shouldn’t have done that.”

“Crowley, my dear-”

“Won’t happen again, promise you that,” he just can’t stop stammering. “I mean, now you know, so if you want time or something or for me to fuck off just say the word.”

“Crowley,” Azirpahale says louder this time, gingerly touching Crowley’s wrists, “dear would you please put down your hands.”

Aziraphale wraps his fingers around Crowley’s wrists, tugging his hands away from his face. Everything is a bit blurry and Crowley realizes he’s crying.

He blinks the tears away and sees Aziraphale, smiling that bright and wonderful smile that Crowley doesn’t always get to see. 

“There you are,” Aziraphale says, running a thumb along Crowley’s cheek to wipe away a tear that dared to escape it’s confines.

“Stop it,” Crowley says, trying to look away but finding himself unable, “don’t give me that look.”

“What look would that be?”

“You’re looking at me like you...you…”

“Love you?” Aziraphale asks and Crowley could swear the angel’s eyes sparkle. 

“Yeah, that,” Crowley says softly as Aziraphale continues stroking his cheek, “you can’t love me. I’m a demon, twisted and unkind that’s me.”

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale says cupping the demon’s cheek, “you couldn’t be more wrong about that if you tried.”

And then, miracle of miracles, Aziraphale leans in and kisses him. Aziraphale is actually kissing him. And he’s kissing Aziraphale back. And Aziraphale is kissing him back _again_ and what a revelation that is.

There’s no telling how long they sit there, it’s not like either of them have to breathe. When they finally break apart, Aziraphale’s voice is barely a breath against his lips.

“I love you, Crowley, I’ve loved you for so very, very long.” Aziraphale tilts his forehead against Crowley’s and for some reason the intimacy of that is more overwhelming than the kiss they just shared. “Wily old serpent, light to my darkness, my darling, my dearest.”. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says reverently and wistfully, drunk on love and belonging, “Aziraphale, you never belonged there, you’re so much better than them. I’ll spend the rest of my days proving that to you, if you’ll let me.”

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale says, kissing him again, “I’d like nothing better.”

“Love you, angel,” Crowley says, peppering kisses all over Aziraphale’s face, getting to hear that laugh that sounds like daybreak, “let me tempt you to lunch.”

Aziraphale laughs, full of hope and full of love, the way Crowley thinks he should always be able to laugh. “I do believe, my darling,” he says as he kisses Crowley on the nose, and it should not be as adorable or endearing as it is, “a table for two at the Ritz has just miraculously opened up.”

As they stroll through the park, hand in hand for all the world and Heaven and Hell to see, Aziraphale feels like he’s home for the first time. Here, with Crowley, finally allowing himself to bask in the glow of a love unconditional and patient. And finally Crowley can feel the love that’s been his all along; the unyielding adoration of his angel. Faintly in the distance, they can hear a nightingale singing in Berkley Square.

  
  


\---

1. An artistic rendition of the poster itself:↩

**Author's Note:**

> Come and scream with me on [Tumblr](https://moveslikebucky.tumblr.com) or in the [Ineffable Outliers Discord](https://discord.gg/xYuHWxz)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [the light on the door to show that you're home (a video)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23515861) by [bookmarksorganization](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookmarksorganization/pseuds/bookmarksorganization)




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